


Of Wonderfully Unplanned Things

by DoreyG



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Malcolm being a bit of a bastard, Multi, Strange and manipulative families, They are royalty after all, Voyeurism, references to canon character death, wall!sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Interesting things can be glimpsed in corridors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Wonderfully Unplanned Things

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the voyeurism square on my Kink_Bingo card, and largely inspired by my desire to see an adaptation of Macbeth where Malcolm is portrayed as a brilliantly manipulative bastard who keeps tricking everybody around him. Set between acts one and two, possibly a slight AU to give them the _time_ to actually shag (and for Malcolm to actually watch them). 
> 
> I've also made no attempts at the (brilliant) language of Shakespeare because I would fail horribly and it would not be pretty in any shape or form.

He hadn’t _meant_ to see it.

And by that he means it wasn’t something he planned, something common (for his plotting is common, has to be common if everything is to be shifted into place) – he didn’t turn away from it when it practically fell into his lap, no, but he didn’t exactly _court_ it.

It really was just a lovely bonus.

The feast was hot, crowded with carousing sorts and snivelling flatterers of his father. The types of short minded folk who couldn’t even conceive the inevitable time when another would sit upon the ever so gilded throne. He’d had no use for them ( _yet_ ) and so it’d been easy enough to rise, slip out from under his brother’s watchful gaze (watching the throne, as all those with noble blood in their veins doubtlessly do) and into the cool corridor.

He’d leant against the stone wall for a contemplative moment, catching his breath and examining the stonework – such fine stonework, work that a man like Macbeth had probably not noticed once in his bloodily tempestuous life…

(He’d smiled slightly at it.)

And that was when he’d heard the _noise_.

Not a pained noise, the screeching whine of a dog with a caught paw or a child that’d spilled onto its hands and knees. Not an angry noise, a soldier blustering into battle or a plump nursemaid scolding her charges. Not even a happy noise, the bubbling laugh of a babe or the coo of a lover presented with something precious…

No.

He’d been a technically innocent man then, is still a technically innocent man now, but he’d crept down enough back passages to know _that_ noise for what it was.

And he’d smiled.

And he’d shook his head.

And he’d laughed, soft and delighted and under his breath…

And he’d edged along the corridor towards that noise, step by slow step. Had only hesitated, for caution – let fools charge in while the cunning spider sits and waits and spins, for a measuring moment before slowly poking his head around the old stone corner.

The Macbeths had been a beautiful couple.

Gloriously beautiful, before madness had robbed their looks and turned them into slavering beasts fit only for ripping apart the bloodied corpse of once fierce Scotland. Her long black hair had rippled in the blunt light of the torches, his ragged soldier’s hands had looked somehow delicate on her waist, they had moved together as if in perfect symmetry – the dance of two people so long in love that they’d forgotten all others.

He’d been expecting a simple serving couple, a maid with her fresh bosom bouncing free of her lacings and an inexperienced boy shaking with his every movement.

But that’d been far better, and so a smirk had shaped his lips as he settled back against the wall – a curvingly smug thing that would’ve probably spoke of _sport_ if anybody had been quick enough to watch him.

They’d been kissing: hot and heavy and hovering on the pleasurable edge of violence. His hands had, indeed – as stated earlier, been gripping onto her waist like she was some rock in a storm. _Her_ hands grasped the sides of his face with equal passion, nails digging in there until he could see the flesh going red under her touch. They were clearly using tongue – slick, hard thrusts that sent the both of them faintly swaying with the effort.

His smirk had curved wider.

And when Lady Macbeth, that fierce creature, had pressed her lord up against the wall? His face had practically split in two, watching the man’s head start back as if in shock and the woman’s digging nails ease to the sweetest sort of caress.

“The feast…”

“Hang the feast, we can linger for the briefest while,” her tone had been low, persuasive – the kind of lulling tone that could’ve felled many weak folk and even a few strong ones, “for as long as it takes me to convince you that you are truly a man.”

His smirk had faded slightly at that, his head had tilted. For was there no man manlier than the great and noble (and slightly dim) Macbeth…?

But, ah, this was memory and so he could skip easily over that brief bit of folly. Skip, instead, to when her fingers slid into his clothes: undid complex buckles quickly, teased open usually unyielding buttons, stripped and stripped with all the experience of a long and happy and surprisingly unfruitful marriage.

He’d arched up on his toes, with mild interest, as more of Macbeth’s faintly tanned chest had been revealed.

Had bitten back a hiss, just a slight one, when Macbeth’s equally tanned hands had come up to halt her long fingers – hold them still in a questioning way, “it’ll be awkward like this.”

“Then be a _man_.”

And then had been glad for that bitten back hiss, glad for giving no sign of his presence, as Macbeth had taken the hint – had placed his hands on his lady’s narrow waist and spun her. Until it was _her_ with her back to the wall and her long legs steadily creeping over those steady soldier’s hips.

He’d pondered for a brief moment what it would’ve been like to have those legs over his hips.

Pondered for another what it would’ve been like to wrap _his_ legs over those hips…

But, thank God (loud and ostentatiously so _nobody_ could doubt his apparent commitment), had soon been distracted yet again – by a resumption of the kissing, a savage slide of lips and tongue and teeth that looked more likely to draw blood than pleasure.

(Although pleasure was a devil’s game, so blood would seem intricately linked to it if you looked closely enough…)

“Go on, then,” she’d hissed into his mouth even with the teeth and threat of blood, “undo yourself.”

“Haven’t you already done that for me?”

“Be a _man_ ,” and her hiss had turned into a purr quickly, a tempting thing that had him swaying forward yet another casual inch, “or be a _king_ , your good lady wife cannot do _everything_ for you.”

Macbeth had huffed at that…

But had lowered his hand, an impressive feat even then with his arms full of wife and only the wall to support both their weights (one modest, one grown muscular from years of soldiers work), and obeyed anyway – a quick twist of his wrist that’d obviously freed _something_ judging by the recalled possessive glint in her eyes.

“Now…”

“I remember the act.”

“You do?”

And he’d held his breath, gripped his hand against the wall, dared to properly _lean out_ into the corridor with every part of him tensing in such a glorious way-

As, with a minute twitch of his hips, Macbeth had slid in – a long slick thrust that’d tipped her head back against the wall and his head forwards into the hollow of her throat and the both of them a little into the stone so her back had scraped with every panting breath.

“…You do.”

“Mm,” he’d agreed in breathless tones.

_Mm_ , he’d agreed silently.

And Macbeth had started to _move_ \- slow, grinding thrusts that drove his wife further up the wall and drove a certain kind of tingling heat into his belly. Hard, passionate things that’d had her moaning gently and his throat constricting with the effort of restraint.

They’d rocked like that for a moment.

_Slowly_.

And then, just as he’d been considering a prompt, had started to _speed up_ \- to a medium pace with a faint tremble of those strong muscles. He’d watched, fascinated, as her thighs had clenched firmly around those strong hips. Watched, spellbound, as his fingers had clenched harder and harder into her thick skirts. Watched, thoughtful, as Macbeth had rocked forward until they could share breath.

Hot breath.

Seething breath.

_Filthy_ breath-

As the pace, and his fingers had dug into the wall then, increased yet again. Faster still until they were almost a _blur_ together – a desperate, rutting, cursing _blur_ driven shakily onwards by the strength of their combined need. He’d been fixed to the way her knees dug up into his sides, the way he scratched down her legs with possessive force, they way they bit at each others lips, the way-

The _way_ -

The way they’d looked together as they’d came, seconds apart and so violently that it was a miracle she didn’t brain herself on the wall and he didn’t drop her helplessly down to the floor.

…Mm.

He’d watched, as she’d slowly eased her legs down. Smirked, as he’d gently pulled out of her. Drawn his fingers away from the wall, as they both fixed their clothes again-

Calmly strolled his way into the corridor proper, as Macbeth had carefully looked down at his wife as if asking permission, “to the feast now?”

“Indeed,” and as she’d smiled in response, gently taking his wrist in some lover’s embrace (some more than lover’s embrace, for he knew that the feelings between them were far fiercer than any casual summer fling between two ever so innocent youths), “we’ve tarried too long, even if the tarrying _was_ pleasurable.”

There’d been a long, and puzzling, pause before Macbeth had dared to open his mouth again, “and the business…?”

“If we fail we fail, if we don’t we don’t – it must be done and _will_ be done tonight,” she’d only raised a hand to his cheek, a gesture that he observed with a smile, “be a man.”

“…As always, my love.”

“Yes-“

And finally they’d turned, brave and noble…

And he’d smiled, at their shocked expressions, sauntered forwards and around like there was nothing more meaningless (more casual) in the whole wide world, “ _yes_ , good day to you, my noble lord Macbeth.”

The second corner was somehow, _somehow_ , more pleasurable to turn, with their gawps helplessly at his back…

And later that night his father had been found murdered in his bed.

 

\--

 

…And now, on his throne, he can smile. And clutch his sceptre. And promise blithely to rub away the dark memories of Macbeth (with his strong hips) and his lady (with her clenching thighs) and bring back the glorious days of his father (murdered in his bed, blood the colour of a fine wine).

It hadn’t been a bad night, overall.


End file.
